Sabotage
by 6uma
Summary: England is jealous. Of course there is only one way to fix that.
1. Attempt One: Showing Weakness

England was angry.

No, he was more than angry.

He was _furious._

Along with quite a number of other emotions, of course. Things like sad, frustrated and depressingly nostalgic.

All of them were caused by that stupid, moronic _bastard, _America.

The aforementioned asshole country was having his two hundred and thirty eighth birthday next week. Or, the closest to a birthday he could get; Independence day, the day he split from England and became his own country.

America played it so _casually, _throwing a huge party to celebrate while England just stayed at home drinking ale and trying not to remember the day of his most heartbreaking war. The day he lost his little brother. The day he saw the person he loved turn his back and leave him forever.

_This wasn't supposed to happen to countries_, he thought. _We have duty, not feelings._

~Earlier~

They had decided to get just the Allies back together in one room, just for old times sake. Once the tedious formalities that Russia insisted on doing had been pushed out of the way, America started on talks about his celebration.

England stared at the colorful invitation America had loudly handed to him and the other countries at the meeting. The moron always gave one to him, even though they both knew that the Englishman never came. _It's like he's just rubbing it in my face, _England said to himself. _Well, of course that's what he's doing, the stupid yank. There isn't any other reason he would._

"Okay, dudes!" America shouted from the head of the table once he finished handing his invitations out. England instantly looked up and saw his detestable face grinning at them all. How could someone be so happy over such a little thing like becoming older?

"I sent one of these to every other country as well, so we're all totally gonna have an awesome time there! I, as your host, will ensure your enjoyment by only allowing the best-"

"Yes, yes, we get it. It is going to be the greatest party we've ever been to and it will be absolutely wonderful blah blah blah." France interrupted and took a drink of water. "You're not the only one who has an important day for their country."

"Hey! Becoming your own country and getting some guys out of prison are two completely different things!"

"They had the same result!"

"If I may interject I believe mine is the most important as I brought my people together with my excellent hosting skills!" China quickly joined the argument.

"Well mine seems to beat all of yours for it is the anniversary of an entirely new country all together, da?"

They continued arguing about who had the most important birthday, France saying that his got people out of poverty, Russia continuing with his new country arc, China smirking about his 'niceness' and America -stupid, idiotic, _beautiful _America- just repeating 'Freedom!' over and over again. England was just about to his limit of all this pointless arguing, even if it was kind of hypocritical.

"Oh shut it, all of you!" England burst out and slammed his hand loudly on the table, making all the water ripple in their glasses. "It's just a goddamn party, let him have his fun."

All four other countries stared at him in surprise. They all knew he was withdrawn and unsociable this time of year. They all thought it was impersonal, selfish even, that America's anniversary just brought back painful memories of when he used to be Britain with a 'Great'.

Nobody else knew how deep it run, how sickeningly _human _it was.

"I have to leave now." He stood up, pushed his chair in and took one, lingering look at the bright piece of paper taunting him before he walked out the door, not even bothering to apologise or come up with an excuse for not going.

The other countries continued with the meeting as if he hadn't been there at all.

England breathed in and out slowly, looking at the shattered glass of scotch at his feet and the blood from his hand when he punched the wall dripping onto it. He stepped over the mess, deciding to deal with it later, and sat at his desk, beginning to pull one of his witchcraft books out.

He had a plan.

He was always sick of the other countries relationships. Always looking out for each other, not romantically involved (to most of their chagrins) but a deep enough friendship to make no difference. They were countries! They had jobs to do and kissing wasn't one of them.

One of the worst pairs was Germany and Italy, probably because they were the ones he saw most. He hated how Germany looked at Italy, how he always came to his aid, how they had even made a pact to be friends forever based on a goddamn _dream. _Italy liked him back, that much was obvious, but Germany was so oblivious that he'd think a blow job was code for a new battle strategy. The moronic Italian would have to start the relationship if they were going to get anywhere.

But why didn't he? It was so infuriatingthe way he acted around his best friend yet he seemed so, _held back _about something.

It didn't matter though. England felt a hot burning jealousy for Germany. He might not be aware of them, but at least his feelings were returned.

England decided if he couldn't get his love requited, neither could anybody else.

And he knew just how to make it happen.

"Italy! Oh _dieu_, _Italy _are you okay?"

"What the hell did you do, Britain?"

"Italy I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was just a joke!"

"Shut up he looks like he's having a stroke!"

Italy ignored the voices shouting frantically at him. He was frozen. Nothing mattered right now. Not the broken wine glass he just dropped, not the scratch received from the cat because it fell so suddenly, not even the unfinished pasta he left on the table.

Nothing except for the young, blond, blue eyed boy sitting in the chair which had been occupied by Germany fifteen seconds ago. Or, as he was more commonly known as;

"Ho-holy Rome," Italy gasped. The other countries instantly fell quiet.

"Holy Rome," he choked out again. "H-holy Roman Empire." He repeated. "Holy Rome. Holy Rome. Holy. Rome."

Italy tentatively took a step towards him. This couldn't be true, could it? He had been gone for so long, how could he be here so suddenly? Italy couldn't care less, he was so full of emotions right now, bubbling and jumping in his chest, happiness and confusion and he was just so so so glad his friend was back!

Italy felt the tears run down his cheeks and he fell to his knees, at eye level with the baffled Holy Roman Empire, who just stared back at him. This was the first time he had actually, seriously cried in such a long time. So long he didn't understand what emotion was causing it.

"Holy Rome. You came back. You returned to me!"

And then Italy smiled. He smiled the widest he could, the widest he ever had. He smiled even broader than when he had gotten a literal tonne of pasta as a birthday present from Spain, more than when Grandpa Roma found a way out of the afterlife again for a whole hour to talk to him, and even brighter than when a barmaid kissed him on the cheek.

He reached towards HRE. The younger Germany. He did say that he could be so _stupid _sometimes, and right now he agreed. How could he not notice the boy he loved had already returned to him? How could he not recognise him when he first opened that box of tomatoes? How could he not figure out the similarities in both appearance and history in the hundreds of years they had spent together being just friends?

Did that mean Italy didn't truly love the boy? No, it didn't, because he loved Germany, but he was still waiting for Holy Rome, but he was here now, he had _always_ been here. Here, in his arms.

"You're here, Germany! Holy Rome you came back I'm so so so happy you came back!" He kissed the younger one on his forehead, his nose his cheeks, repeating his name and "you came back!" over and over again. When he finally came to his lips, it wasn't Holy Rome but Germany, who had gained his memories so suddenly he got a headache. But that didn't matter, because even though it had happened so fast, he was perfectly content with holding Italy and ignoring the other G20 members as they kissed, no matter how embarrassing it might turn out to be later.

England was snarling throughout the entire exchange.

He wanted to show Italy how weak and useless Germany could be, not reunite two childhood lovers

It had turned out that Italy was holding back with getting with Germany because _of course_ he was the type of person who would make a stupid promise to wait for someone for a thousand years and then _actually_ stick to it. Not even America would do something that stupid!

_Austria and Hungary probably didn't tell him about the Holy Roman Empire's fall, _England thought with a small pang of sympathy. He shook it off however and started on his next plan. This was no time for feelings. Who was going to be the next unfortunate soul? He looked around his darkened working room, trying to come up with ideas, until finally he caught glimpse of the dumb pirate-ship-in-a-bottle America had found and presented to him with a birthday card and a smile. He thought being a pirate was cool. Still such a kid.

But he thought back to his pirating days, the rare fond memories he had of sailing the seas in that amazing outfit he wore. But he continued to his worst ones, and smiled evilly because he had a way to get revenge now.

If he couldn't break people up by showing them how weak the other was, he was going to do the exact opposite.

And he knew exactly who to do it to.


	2. Second Attempt: Showing Strength

"So, you happy?" Spain asked, setting down the bowl of chips on the coffee table and sitting on the couch.

"About what?" Romano snatched the beer that Spain handed him and snapped the top off.

Both countries were fairly relaxed these days, as they were mainly staying out of wars lately and the soccer season was over. Spain was visiting Romano's house because the Italian was complaining that he didn't have anything to wear to America's party.

That was completely the absolute and only reason that he did. Ever.

"Your brother of course!" Spain had that dumb smile on his face, as always, when he turned the television on so that they could watch a stupid movie he had brought over from England's place (how he managed that, Romano would never know).

Romano snarled and took a gulp of his drink. "That potato-muncher better look after him properly or I'll-" Spain noticed his friend was holding his bottle very tightly, so he gently put his hand on the others and lowered them to the table before it got covered in beer.

They spent the next hour and a half watching Sliding Doors, Romano continuously making fun of everything they said and Spain making futile attempts to defend it.

When the credits finally rolled, Spain patted Romano's knee and stood up, heading out of the room. "I'll make us some proper dinner now, okay? You can't go living on junk food forever!"

"That's only because you never make it for me anymore, idiot!" He did make his own amazing food, he was _Italy _after all, but he only ate sugary things when Spain came over, because why cook when you had someone around to do it for you? It wasn't like Spanish cuisine was delicious either, absolutely not. IT was just for convenience.

"Well okay, _dear, _I'll come over everyday and make it for you if you want!"

"Don't you fucking dare, asshole!" Romano shouted over his shoulder and then turned back to the TV, where the credits were still going down.

_He makes it sound like we're married, _Romano grumbled in his own mind, quickly followed by an _If only _and an _I didn't think that._

Why would he want to be married to _that _guy? He had a nice ass, obviously, but that wasn't a valid reason to be wed!

The doorbell rung just before Romano could get too far into his marriage crisis.

"Can you get that please, sweetie?" Spain laughed.

"Don't call me that!" Romano sighed and got up to get the door. If it was anybody like Turkey...

It was a mailman, holding a small wooden box.

"I have a delivery for a Mr. South Italy?" His voice was slightly accented, but Romano couldn't quite place it. Nevertheless, it was suspicious. He narrowed his eyes.

"You're not a girl."

The postman blinked in confusion. "Uh, um, excuse me?"

"You're not a woman. Everybody around here only sends females to deal with me." Romano's eyes widened suddenly as he finally recognized the accent. "You're English!"  
The man thrust the box into the country's hands. "Sorry sir, here's your package sir, have a nice day!" he almost shouted and sprinted away before anything could happen.

Romano scowled at his retreating back. What sort of stunt was Britain pulling this time? How can he _still _have a grudge against Spain? Their pirate days ended like a million years ago.

But this was addressed to _him, _not Spain. That just made it even stranger.

He closed the door and walked towards the kitchen, opening the box as he went.

Inside was a small pile of paper. He picked the one on top before stopping in his tracks when he read the title, scripted in neat, English handwriting.

_A record of every one of The Kingdom Of Spain's attacks from 1559 to 1814._

* * *

Spain was still in the kitchen, humming some songs he had learnt while touring his beloved South Italy- his beautiful, wonderful and positively _adorable _Romano.

He was so happy whenever Romano asked him over. It meant that he still wanted them to be friends, even after he had moved out. Spain felt quite a bit more than just friendship, though.

But Romano wouldn't, _couldn't possibly _think of him in the same way. That much was obvious, by the way he flirted with girls and froze whenever Spain touched him. So, he settled for making him dinner and collecting tomatoes and trying to find nice clothes for him to wear. Which was okay! As long as he was close to him, that was all Spain needed.

He heard the doorbell ring, asked Romano to answer it, then heard him talking with the mailman (man? That was strange, they hated coming to this house), the door slam, silence, and then a sudden crash.

"Hey, Romano! What's wro-" Spain had turned around to go to help, but found a white-faced Romano already standing at the kitchen door, leaning against the frame with one hand and tightly clutching a piece of paper in the other.

"Romano! You're all white, are you-"

"Twenty second of February, 1744," Romano interrupted, now looking at the paper he was trying hard to strangle a few seconds earlier.

"Wha-"

"The largest sea battle of the Austrian Succession had taken place," Romano continued, and Spain stopped in his tracks, memories of floating dead bodies and blood-stained water flooding through his mind. It was a little over the least he had seen in his life, but one death was still definitely too much.

"Off the coast of Toulon, France. The Spanish and French navys fought against the British Mediterranean fleet to deliver troops and supplies to the Spanish military in Italy. 291 causalities, 663 wounded, 700 of those under Spanish claim. Named the Battle Of Toulon." Romano quickly looked up at Spain's face. It showed no signs of remorse, just remembrance. He supposed, due to these records, two hundred people dead at his hands was nothing. The Spaniard shook his head and took a step towards him.

"Oh god Romano, no-"

"Eighth of February, 1743. The Spanish army of 13,000 men lay in wait at Bologna for the Austrian army of 11,000. A heavy fight ensued, resulting in 2,152 deaths and 1,977 injured or captured, from both sides. Named the Battle of Campo Santo." Romano still couldn't believe these. He was waiting for Spain to laugh, to say it was another hoax by that dickhead England, tease him for getting so worked up by it and then serve dinner and everything would be fine. But he just stood there, looking as frozen as Romano felt, and didn't say anything as Romano kept reading.

"Battle of Velletri, August 12, 1744. 4,000 dead, 4,000 captured. Battle of Piacenza, 1746. 16,400 dead, captured or wounded. Rocroi, 19,000. 14,000. 6,400. Spain." He finally looked him in the eyes and stopped reading from it altogether. He didn't even want to look at it anymore, he had had enough. "_1559 to 1814._ These... these are the dates..." he could hardly choke it out. "These were the dates that I lived at your house."

"Romano-" Spain started, but the other country cut him off.

"I-I'm not a kid anymore. All those times you left, you went to war, I know that. But these? They're only three hundred years worth."

Spain looked extremely worried, like some hideous secret he had been keeping had suddenly been open to the world. But this hideous secret already was- just not to Romano.

"Romano, you know we've all done it. Some have done a lot worse and you know that."

"We have? What, like England? He took over the entire goddamn _world_, but that makes sense because he's a fucking asshole! He has no goddamn _feelings._ But you? You're a nice person and everybody loves you and nobody cares that you killed thousands of people."

"I didn't want to kill them!" Spain said through gritted teeth. Fuck, this was probably the angriest he'd gotten in years.

"Then why did you?"

"You know how our bosses are."

"That's no excuse!" Romano raised his voice. "All of these people could have survived if you just didn't follow one goddamn order!"

"I couldn't not do it!"

"WHY?"

"Because I did it for you!"

Romano paused at that, but quickly grimaced. "So they died because of me?"

"I didn't mean it like tha-"

"It doesn't matter what you meant, it's the truth, isn't it? You slaughtered them just so you could keep my inheritance from Grandpa!"

"That's not true."

"It is! This entire time, when I lived with you, when I lived with Austria, even now, isn't it? All you want is that! You don't give two FUCKS about me!"

"I don't give two fucks about your inheritance!" Romano couldn't think of anything more to say, so Spain went on. "I know you always lived in the shadow of your brother, Romano, but you, yourself, not your inheritance or skills or your land or anything like that, I mean _you_. I care about you and you only. I-in fact..." Spain trailed off and closed his eyes. If there was anytime to do it, it was now. "I know it's wrong, but I've decided that if your brother can do it, so can we." He took a deep breath. _Been waiting 500 years for this moment, can't fuck it up now. _

"I don't just care for you, Romano. I love you."

"That's not true."

Spain opened his eyes quickly. He was expecting Romano to stay silent, or run away or even hit him. But he was glaring at him, just as angry as before.

"You don't love me. You can't love me. Everybody loves you and Veneziano. But not me, you just. Fucking. Can't."  
Spain watched as the tears ran down the other mans face, and he shook his head. "No. Romano. Romano that isn't true." And before they could say anything more, he strode over and pulled him into a tight hug, placing his mouth near Romano's ear.

"Lovino," Spain whispered, and Romano gasped. His human name? None of the countries used each others human names unless it was something extremely personal. Belgium never called either of them by their human names, hell, Romano didn't even call his own _brother _by his. It was used to symbolize that they were human, and humans had feelings. Like...

"I love you, Lovino Vargas. I've always loved you and I always will, until the sun blows up and nobody exists but even then I will still, always and forever, love you."  
Romano turned bright red. What was this guy saying? How could he love him this wasn't possible he needed to get away and hide and eat pasta and forget this entire thing.

"F-fine. _Antonio._ You bastard." He found himself saying against his will, and he hissed and clutched at the Spaniards clothing, turning a brighter red if that was even possible.

Spain, no, Antonio, pulled his head back and giggled at Lovino's face. "You're bright red! just like a tomato!"

"Sh-shut up! Bastard!" Lovino frowned before grabbing Antonio's collar and pulling him down to clash their lips together. Antonio widened his eyes in surprise before settling into it and holding them both close, because this was perfect and wonderful and goddammit the food was burning.

* * *

Now England had another mess to deal with. The video camera that Flying Mint Bunny had used to record those two's display was shattered at the floor next to the wall England had thrown it at.

How the _fuck _had that happened? Everything was going perfectly! He was sure that brat Romano was going to run out of the house at any minute, and then Spain- god he hated Spain. He should have _known _the imbecile was going to do something dramatic like that. Why didn't he do something to make him not love Romano anymore instead? _But then that wouldn't work, _he thought, thinking back to when the Spaniard had confessed. _He said he had always loved him, and always would. Why couldn't I have someone like that?_

Romano was a lucky little shit.

England sighed and leaned back in his chair. It looked like he was going to have to get some help, if he wanted these plans to actually get anywhere.

He ran through all the countries he knew, thinking of which ones could help him. France? Nope. Country of love, he'd downright refuse to do anything that stopped it. Seychelles? She was a good friend, but she was far too nice to do something like this. Russia? God, he didn't want to _kill _them.

Then his mind landed on one person who would be absolutely _perfect._ Even if they weren't friends at all, they were basically in the same boat, of course he would help!

England went out and bought beer, so that this plan wouldn't go wrong. He bought flowers because it was tradition, and he seriously considered bringing scones until he remembered how everybody had reacted to them last time, and then knocked at the door of the person who was formerly known as the Kingdom of Prussia.


End file.
